


begun to feel like home

by tumbleoutyourhair



Series: flying and burning [7]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Established Relationship, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, THESE TWO NEVER MAKE ANYTHING FUCKING EASY, idek theres weird hand holding and possibly a bitten off love confession???, it's an odd scenario, its both i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 22:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9518507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumbleoutyourhair/pseuds/tumbleoutyourhair
Summary: "h’y asshole wake up.”wash inhales sharply, brow screwing up as he surges back to consciousness. his head comes up and he blinks blearily around the room before his gaze lands on tucker. there’s a long moment where they stare at each other, wash seemingly uncomprehendingly, and tucker arches a brow.“s’up.”wash’s eyes fly open and he shoots upright, nearly falling out of his chair in the process. “tucker!”tucker huffs, lips curling. “tha’s me. you look like shit.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> i just gave someone false hope about the next fill in this series being smut. i lied. my bad.
> 
> rated for dem swears
> 
> prompt: not a fucking clue. hurt/comfort maybe?? they all seem to follow a theme...

tucker wakes up and immediately regrets it.

“nnnnnnnngh,” he gurgles at the ceiling.

“holy shit you’re not dead!” someone says from the side.

“no but i feel like it,” is what he means to say, but mostly it comes out as demonic rasping.

“oh shit yeah hang on a second.” there’s the sounds of someone rattling around and then a straw is placed at his lips. “here; drink slow.”

it’s probably just tap water–and not even the good filtered shit–but to tucker it might as well be the ambrosia of the gods. he sips back half a glass before settling back and actually taking in his surroundings.

grif blinks down at him, and just over his shoulder he can spot a table overflowing with flowers, stuffed animals, and mostly eaten chocolates.

“h’spital?” he breathes, finally noticing the faint smell of bleach and antiseptic under the floral aroma.

grif plops back in his chair. “yeah dude. you’ve been out for like a week.”

tucker frowns blearily at the ceiling. “h’pp’ned?”

“you were standing next to a grenade when it went off–which, _i_ think, was a poor decision on your part,” he says wisely. tucker snorts and it only hurts mostly. “not that that wasn’t bad enough, but the explosion knocked you down a ravine. so we had to haul your sorry ass out before we could even get you here.”

“s’rry,” he mutters.

grif shrugs, peering into one of the many opened boxes of sweets littering the bedside table. “don’t say sorry to me. he’s the one that’s been here the whole time.”

confused, tucker follows grif’s gesture and turns his head–

_oh_. well that explains why his hand is nice and warm.

wash looks like shit. he’s crammed his long body into one of visitor chairs, and part of his torso is arched uncomfortably over the armrest to lie against tucker’s bed. one of his hands is wrapped around tucker’s and he finds himself enraptured by the contrast of dark and light skin.

“he’s been here since you got out of surgery,” grif says, making a face at whatever he’s bitten into and spitting it into the nearby trashcan.

tucker can tell. wash’s hair could definitely go for a brush and probably even a wash ( _hah_!) or two. he’s got what appears to be blood still smeared across his forehead. even sleeping tucker can see he’s got some major dark circles going on under his eyes.

“h’w l’ng?”

“four days,” grif replies, unusually somber. “it was touch and go there for awhile, man. your heart stopped a couple times.” he squints suspiciously at a chocolate before tossing it over his shoulder. “he camped out in the waiting room–they had to barricade the doors to the or cause he kept sneaking in.”

tucker wants to smile, but there’s something large and overwhelming swelling behind his breastbone and he thinks he might still be dying. he looks at the furrowed brow, the ragged collar of his shirt, the freckles racing up and down his arms.

he flops his head back around to stare at grif. “no ‘ffence, but you need to go ‘way now.”

grif snorts, taking three boxes of chocolates with him as he stands. “no offence taken, dude. this reunion is not one i want a closeup of.”

tucker flaps his hand as he leaves, already turning back to the blonde at his side. he wriggles his hand around until he can lace his fingers through wash’s then squeezes. 

“h’y asshole wake up.”

wash inhales sharply, brow screwing up as he surges back to consciousness. his head comes up and he blinks blearily around the room before his gaze lands on tucker. there’s a long moment where they stare at each other, wash seemingly uncomprehendingly, and tucker arches a brow.

“s’up.”

wash’s eyes fly open and he shoots upright, nearly falling out of his chair in the process. “tucker!”

tucker huffs, lips curling. “tha’s me. you look like shit.”

“ _i_  look like shit?!” wash tries to make some sort of gesture, but his hand is still tangled with tucker’s and he doesn’t make it too far. “i’m not the one who–” he stares down at their hands, momentarily derailed, before the glare returns full force. “tucker you almost _died_!”

“you say that like i was runnin’ around b’hind enemy lines doin’ heroic shit,” tucker grumbles. “i was followin’ _your_  orders. for once,” he snorts.

wash flinches, guilt creeping over his expression like a shadow. he tries to disentangle their fingers, but tucker merely tightens his grip. “i know and–tucker i’m so sorry.”

he rolls his eyes. “you didn’ throw the grenade dude; not your fault.”

wash keeps his gaze lowered, not seeming to be aware of the circles he’s drawing over tucker’s pulse. “it was so fast… seeing you disappear like that–and then we pull you out and you’re covered in blood and i–”

his breath hitches and tucker tugs on their joined hands, forcing wash to look back up at him. “hey, i’s fine. _i’m_  fine.”

“you _weren’t_  though tucker! you weren’t moving and your _heart stopped_  and you can’t do that to me again!” he’s shaking like a leaf and his knuckles are bone white where he’s clutching desperately at tucker. “i thought this was finally the end of our luck and i–i hadn’t even told you–”

he breaks off, teeth digging into his lip to stop the slew of words. tucker stares at him, that feeling swelling beneath his lungs again–but this time it feels warm and bright and he definitely knows he’s not dying.

“come here,” he demands, tugging at wash’s hand.

“what?” is the slow reply.

“’m tired and want to go back to bed an’ you’re all the way over there,” tucker pouts. 

wash’s shoulders droop and he bites at his lip again. “did–i can leave if you–”

snorting, tucker yanks at their arms again. “don’t be dumb. you’re like five times too long for that chair. come. _here_.” 

it’s satisfying to watch the flush creep up over wash’s cheeks. he unfolds out of his chair, hesitating at the side of the bed, and nearly falling when tucker pulls again. he moves so carefully as he crawls onto the bed, like tucker is something delicate and breakable and it’s mostly nice but it also makes him want to show wash just how _un_ breakable he is.

he finally settles, head tucked into the crook of his neck, joined hands resting over the steady beat of tucker’s heart. before he can overthink it, he raises their hands and presses a kiss against the pale, scarred skin.

wash’s breathing hitches and tucker smirks at the ceiling. “we can talk ‘bout this later when ‘m not fallin’ asleep and prob’ly drugged up, but ‘m not goin’ anywhere. not where you can’t follow.”

“you shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep,” wash says, voice low and breath warm where it flows over his skin.

“then you’ll jus’ have to make sure i do,” tucker replies matter-of-factly. he tries not to shiver when he feels chapped lips press against his shoulder, and then again at the bolt of his jaw. 

he’s slipping under, lulled by the heat against his side, and the feeling of wash rubbing his thumb soothingly over the back of his hand, when a thought occurs to him.

“t’m’rrow you defs need t’shower,” he mumbles, “y’smell.”

the last thing he remembers is the low rumble of laughter and lips on his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> [dem space gays doe](http://agentwashingtrash.tumblr.com/)


End file.
